Preview: Phoenix Flight: Vengeance Prologue and Chapter

The following is a preview excerpt from 

Phoenix Flight: Vengeance.

In order to avoid spoilers, I have elected to jump from the Prologues to a chapter deeper in the book. Vengeance will be available soon. Until then... Enjoy!

 Before rejoining our cast of characters, we need to take a brief detour to a critical event many years prior to the events of book one...

Prologue One

Excerpt from “Extraterrestrial Archaeology for Beginners”

©2141 by Bryon Hejn

In the years that followed the discovery/invention of JumpGate technology, scientific exploration and exploitation virtually exploded sending scientists, archaeologists, xenopaleontologists and speculators scattered to the cosmos.

Many returned empty-handed. Some (thankfully) never returned at all.

Archaeology was probably the most interesting approach to interstellar exploration. The first UNITARD-sponsored Extraterrestrial Archaeology (ExArch) expedition— or “Flight Alpha” —was launched in the late 21^st century.

Flights “Beta,” “Gamma” and “Delta” soon followed. The first four exploratory missions, often referred to as the “Four Fantastic Flights” soon discovered what we had suspected all along.

We are alone in the universe.

Or are we?

Perhaps the greatest desire of those who searched the cosmos for signs of life was to actually find definitive proof of something—anything—alive out there.

And the greatest fear of those who waited at home was that somebody might actually find said life elsewhere.

 

In the year

2103…

 Prologue Two

Planet: Cabana 3 [Designation: Cheopia]

Continent: Primary Landmass

Location: Apparent Ruins from Lost Civilization

Date: 13-August-2103

Time: 1432

[Time set on UNITARD Archaeologic Explorer Ramses IV]

I’m gonna be famous, Zeb thought. Famous, rich and immortal!

The structure was obviously not of human design. This fact alone made it the single greatest scientific and archaeological discovery in the history of humankind. Two archaeologists faced the greatest discovery of an epoch: Irrefutable proof of alien life! For centuries... for millennia… people had speculated, wished, hoped and feared alien life forms.

Now they were on the cusp archaeological equivalent of… well, there just wasn’t anything by which it could be compared! This was the archaeological equivalent of a meeting of the minds between Pasteur, Banting, Best, Pauling, Einstein, Hawking and Jordan-Cole.

It was incalculably huge, and it was all theirs.

On the down side, the building was to-date, impossible to enter. Zebediah “Zeb” Armstrong and his partner Aaron Plant-Dyan had spent several days trying to open what appeared to be “the front door” of an underground structure. The doorway was at the base of what appeared to be a short, descending ramp. About halfway down the ramp, the dirt and rock walls gave way to a dark, igneous-looking substance that made up the doorway. The door itself was not a “door” per se, but more like a cellar door, or the lid for a crypt. It was angled slightly upward from what would be flat ground. The walls and door were adorned with thousands upon thousands of unrecognizable hieroglyphs.

The door itself was angled in such a way that one could stand on it with little difficulty. In fact, the only thing that made standing on it a challenge was the almost-frictionless nature of the material. On contact, it felt oily, but it left no residue.

The entire setup created the impression that once the door would open, one would have to make a short drop into whatever lay beyond. More specifically, they speculated it was a short drop. They really had no idea what was inside. With a gallows-humor, Aaron had once postulated that there could be a proverbial “bottomless pit” that they could drop into.

“Imagine finally getting into this thing and finding incomprehensible wealth, but no way of getting out,” Aaron had said.

Zeb had responded with stone-faced silence.

“I don’t want to spend the rest of my days trapped on this backwater world,” he said. “Don’t even joke about that!”

Thus far, the material from which the doorway was constructed had been completely resistant to everything they had thrown at it. Laser drill, explosives and even expletives had no effect. They had been unable to take samples for analysis, because they were unable to remove any portion of the substance. All they had was passive spectral analysis and other scans.

After almost a week of searching for a secondary entrance, the two archaeologists and their android assistant were once again back at their starting point.

Zeb wiped the sweat from his brow as he once again attempted to reconcile his conundrum. Specifically: how could something that appeared so delicate and so inviting be so stinking forbidding and impregnable?

The surface was shiny, like volcanic glass, or obsidian. However, unlike those earthly substances, (which tended to be fragile,) this stuff was completely impervious to any of their attempts at penetration. On the surface of the door was a bas-relief image of a blockish-looking humanoid. To Zeb’s trained eye, it appeared like no other form of hieroglyph he had ever seen. But then, none of the glyphs they had seen here looked to be human in origin.

“PFAH!” Zeb spat. “This blinkin’ doorway will be the death of me yet, Dyan.”

His partner, who was making faux-vellum rubbings of the hieroglyphs on one of the walls stopped and glared at Zeb. He began squinting, as though he were staring into a bright light. Finally, he spoke.

“Please…please tell me you didn’t just make another pun with my name, Zeb,” he said. The young archaeologist had noted that Zeb tended to make puns when he was irritated or under stress.

“Awww please, son…I’m not plantin’ my foot in that trap again,” Zeb said, winking at the assistant.

“OK, now cut it out,” the younger archaeologist said, taking a swig from his PowGat’rade™. “Y’know, it’s not like I got to choose my name, and I really don’t want to file an injunction against you.”

“Aye…and I wouldn’t want you to have to be…airin’ yer grievances, now would I?” Zeb said.

Aaron choked and sputtered. He spat out half of his drink, spraying the area with the antifreeze-colored beverage. The barren rocky soil of the dig site greedily absorbed the libation.

“Hey, I hadn’t thought to use that energy-rehydration drink-gack of yours on the door,” Zeb said. “Do you suppose it has some sort of caustic properties that’ll assist us?”

Both archaeologists stared at the moist spot in the soil. After a moment, Zeb finally spoke again.

“Apparently not,” he said.

“OK, OK,” Aaron said. “…And I surrender in the name-pun game, Zeb. You’ll always be able to Strong-arm me.”

After a few seconds of both men staring at each other, Zeb shook his head.

“Ahhh…I don’t get it,” the older man said, rubbing his salt-and-pepper goatee.

Aaron sputtered looking to the third member of the party for help.

“Back me up, STARK,” he said.

The android assistant spoke up.

“Ah, sir Zebulon, I believe that young master Dyan-Plant juxtaposed the compound of your surname to…” the android began.

Zeb bellowed laughter so loudly that it echoed off the nearby hills. After several seconds of his raucous guffawing, the older man finally spoke. His face was a deep shade of red and there were tears at the corners of his eyes.

“Aaahhhh, STARK, where’d we be without you?” The archaeologist patted the android on its metallic exoskeleton.

“Probably right here, sir Zebulon,” the android said. “I have made no recent contributions to your current stellar-, or geographic location.”

According to the android, its voice was patterned after a television actor from the 1970s and ‘80s who was better known for his voice than his face.

Aaron spat more drink while Zeb launched into another fit of riotous laughter. After several more seconds of the two humans laughing uncontrollably, Aaron finally caught his breath.

“What do you suppose is beyond the door of the temple?” He asked.

“TEMPLE? Why…why does your new-school generation of archaeologists think everything’s got some sort of religious application?” Zeb demanded. “When did we slip back into that rut? I thought those ideas finally died out in the 21^st century.”

“Probably when archaeological exploration went extra-terrestrial,” Aaron responded. “I think once you start back at the beginning, you have to look at things like they were at the beginning. We’re at the beginning of Ex-Tee-Ay, so we start over.”

Aaron smiled at his surmise. To Zeb the young man seemed fairly proud of his conclusion.

“You and your acronyms, Ex-Tee-Ay,” Zeb scoffed, finger-hooking air quotes as he said it. “Always the simple route. Acronyms and Temples with you and your generation.”

Aaron stood with his hands held in front of him, palms up, as if to say “That’s all I’ve got, boss.”

“So it’s a temple because we’re doing things for the first time, eh?” Zeb continued. “Sure, it could be a temple, but there’s just as much likelihood it’s not. And your paycheck comes from the department of Extra-Terrestrial Archaeology, so don’t gimme no Ex-Tee-Ay.”

Zeb finally lost control and started giggling. His theatrical tirade had run its course, and he was done giving his partner a hard time.

“So, what do you think it is, if it’s not a temple?” Aaron asked.

“It could be a burial site, or a vault, or a weapons locker…even a WalMarGet for all we know,” Zeb said. “But if it’s all about religion, then the weapons locker is for a religion of violence, if it’s a vault, then it’s a religion of money-worship, if it’s a WalMarGet, then it’s a religion of cheap plastic trinkets.”

“Weird, Zeb,” Aaron said. “You come up with that all by yourself?”

“Look, I’m just saying that, we’ll feel really stupid if we go looking for hymnals and religious artifacts when we crack this thing open and find canned peaches and some alien-grandma’s crème Brule recipe,” Zeb said. “I mean, for all we know, it could be a soap factory.”

“Cleanliness… is next to godliness,” Aaron supplied without missing a beat. Seconds later, the young archaeologist also didn’t miss a beat as he dodged the dirt clod Zeb threw at him.

“Sir Zebulon, might I suggest, based upon my earthbound observations, that if this were indeed a WalMarGet, its sign would have been visible from several kilometers away,” STARK offered.

This comment led to another round of raucous laughter, which finally faded into a series of fits and giggles.

At this point, STARK offered apologies for causing the humans so much distress, but that just led to more wild laughter.

When Zeb finally gathered his wits, he was red-faced, with many more small tear-droplets in the corners of his eyes.

“Hand me that sledge, STARK,” the big archaeologist said. “Your robotic wit has made me feel reinvigorated. I’m gonna take a swing at the door. I think this time it’ll make a difference.”

The robot trundled over to the supply sled and returned a moment later with a 4-kilo sledge hammer. The brand-new hammer still had warning labels on its bright orange NylaCron handle. STARK handed the implement to the large man.

Zeb took a deep breath, swinging the hammer back over his head. He looked to Aaron like he was about to play a “ring-the-bell Hi-Striker” game at the Hemispheric fair. Zeb stood motionless for a moment, holding his arms behind his back, with the head of the sledge planted on his calf.

Taking another deep breath, Zeb brought the hammer back in a high arc over his head. He emitted a loud grunt as he put all of his considerable strength into the swing. At the top of the arc, it looked to Aaron that, if Zeb lost his grip on the hammer, it would launch into orbit rather than be held by the planet’s gravitational pull.

The sledge struck the face of the bas relief blockish humanoid.

CRAAAAAAAACKKK! PAAANNNGG!

Silence followed, save for the slight, ringing echo from the report.

“OOOWWWWW!” Zeb howled, dropping the hammer. He quickly tucked his hands into his armpits. “Ow! Ow ow ow!”

“Ooooo…I hate it when that happens,” Aaron said. “Do you think you broke your hand?”

Zeb grunted in disgust and then sighed, shaking his hands and then his head.

“Nah, but I have to admit, it really hurts when I do that,” he said. “I guess I’m not as robust as I felt.” Zeb shook his hands vigorously, blowing on them.

“Need I remind you, sir Zebulon, that, at eighty years old, you are a fine specimen, especially by human standards,” STARK said, running a metallic claw-hand over the face of the obsidian doorway. “However, that said, there was no perceptible indentation on the structural surface.”

Zeb puffed out his lower lip. He glared sullenly at the copper-skinned android. STARK was an older-model of android, hailing from an era when there was less effort made to construct humanoid-looking automata. Its appearance was skeletal in design, and to a child, it might even seem somewhat frightening. Its head was shaped almost like that of a praying mantis, with a long hook-like beak for a nose and mouth and two black, bulbous eyes.

“Way to make a guy feel important,” the young assistant said. “STARK, if you ever leave our employ, you might consider a career in motivational speaking.”

“My goal in life is to become a despot or a pundit,” the android said. “But, motivational speaking and punditry are not too dissimilar for me to rule out your suggestion.”

Dyan-Plant laughed raucously. Zeb sulked evermore.

“Geez, STARK, you really know how to hurt a guy,” Zeb said, finally, as Aaron’s laughter mellowed to the occasional titter. “I’m dyin’ here.”

“Wait…I’m Dyan, not you,” Aaron said.

“Ach, so, sir Zebulon, I believe you were able to injure yourself without my assistance,” the robot said. “But allow me to administer a salve to the blister you sustained on your left hand.”

“I got a blister on my…?” Zeb stopped to look at his left hand. After a second, he sheepishly offered his hand to STARK, who quickly tended to his injury.

“I anticipate that if you continue hammering at the structure, sir Zebulon, in fifty years, you would be finished,” STARK said as it applied sextuple-antibiotic ointment and pain relievers to Zeb’s hand.

“Really? It’d take fifty years for us to get through it?” Zeb asked, suddenly sounding interested again.

“No, no. I am sorry. I apologize for the confusion,” the robot said. “To clarify: my surmise was based upon your strength, your level of health, and life expectancy. Fifty years from now, you would be finished…not the door.”

“Oh…uh…thanks,” Zeb said, sounding downtrodden again.

As the sun Cabana Prime (or Amun) set, STARK conjured up a holographic 3D rendering of a classic action-adventure film from the early part of the last century. It had all the elements of a good action flick: Guns, giant monsters, skin and high-speed vehicle chases.

Zeb and Aaron soon were fast asleep, while the android stood watch.

Later that night…                                    Ship’s time: 0732

Despite being early morning onboard the tiny Archaeological- Exploration vessel Ramses IV, it was still just halfway through the Cheopian night.

STARK usually spent its non-service times staying current on robotics- and technology news, while also running self-diagnostic subroutines. The robot noted that a stress point in its left forearm, on its titanium scapula, would need tending prior to its next scheduled maintenance overhaul.

The copper-colored android also spent a percentage of its available RAM trying to decipher the cryptic alien glyphs. So far, they had yielded no discernible understanding.

The robot found itself “wishing” for the proverbial “Rosetta Chip” to help it read the mysterious hieroglyphic language. In an effort to “exhaust every avenue of research,” the robot also accessed the GalaxyWide Web, or InterGalactiNet for information on every possible recorded archaeological dig for any possible matches. STARK even consulted works of fiction in its pursuit of historical information. To date, there had been no success.

As an emotionless automaton, STARK had no desires of its own, existing solely for the purposes of serving those who ostensibly employed the android. Zebediah Armstrong (who always asked to be called Zebulon) and Aaron Dyan-Plant were technically the robot’s “owners” but they treated STARK as a friend, or “one of the team.” Sir Zebulon had gone so far as to transfer STARK’s certificate of title to STARK, ostensibly freeing the machine from servitude. None of that mattered. STARK was a machine, and machines were built to serve mankind.

Even so, Sir Zebulon had even taken to referring to STARK with the male pronoun, owing mostly to the android’s male-sounding voice. While STARK had no emotions to accept the pronoun with “pride” or “appreciation,” the android understood that the human archaeologist was trying to include the robot in his circle of colleagues. This action alone was very different from treatment by any of the dozens of the android’s previous owners.

As a result, STARK strove to act as a team member, contributing to the cause.

Hence: STARK simultaneously tried to translate the strange alien hieroglyphs while attempting to penetrate the doorway. And thus it was, that late in the Cheopian night, STARK made a tremendous discovery.

>>Tzzzzzzzkkt<<

STARK noted the briefest pulse of energy. It was little more than a burst of static at the higher end of the electromagnetic spectrum.

This pulse was the fifth such burst that STARK had noticed since the archaeology team had arrived. After a quick recheck, the android noticed the pulses occurred at an interval of six hours, seventeen minutes, forty-nine seconds. The robot immediately scanned its own memories, quickly discovering that there had been fifty-six pulses that occurred every six hours, seventeen minutes, forty-nine seconds since the team arrived on Cheopia. With all the activity, the android had not noticed most of them.

Originally, STARK had dismissed the pulses as echoes from Ramses IV. However, because this pulse occurred while STARK was directly connected to Ramses IV’s databanks, the android realized that the pulses were not emanating from the ship as it had first surmised.

The android walked to the sealed entrance. In the dead of night, the mechanoid noticed that the door was not actually solid black, but instead glowed softly in the darkness. Instead of being black, it was a deep, deep shade of crimson.

If the android had human emotions or any way to have a sense of foreboding, it would find the color to be similar to that of dried human blood.

STARK faced the glyphs on the sides of the walls that led to the door. The android studied the hieroglyphic images, following them down the ramp to the door. It noticed that in several instances, there were repeat images. Thousands of them, actually. Three thousand, two hundred seventy, to be exact.

For a moment, the android considered waiting six hours, four minutes and 43 seconds for the next EM pulse. However, with thought processes that functioned at approximately one billion times faster than a human, waiting six-plus hours for something that STARK actually anticipated would be almost an eternity.

STARK scanned through its memory to find the frequency on which the pulses were broadcasting. Upon locating the frequency, the android matched the frequency and “responded” with a blast of static.

Nothing. After several seconds, STARK tried again, but this time, the android encoded images and words.

Greetings, the android tried again, attempting to say the word in as many earthly languages as it knew.

>>Tzzzzzkt-tzzzzzzkt Tzzzing<<

If STARK could have been startled, it would have.

I do not comprehend your meaning, STARK broadcast, again in many different languages.

Silence.

Greetings, STARK tried again.

>>Tzzzzzzkt<<

Curious, the android cogitated. Perhaps I should wake the others.

>>Tzzzzzz-Tzzzzkt<<

STARK faced the hieroglyphs again. The android quickly replayed the EM pulses, trying to reconcile the indecipherable data and pulses with the indecipherable glyphs.

>>Tzzzzzzzzkt-Tzzzzzzzing<<

If STARK had been cursed with a human body, it would have been about two heartbeats away from a heart attack. The instant the electromagnetic pulsation occurred, STARK could read one word on the wall. Specifically, it was the one word that repeated more than three thousand times.

>>Tzz/… Gho-Qannikz …/kkt<<

And suddenly, whenever STARK saw those glyphic images, it immediately understood the word to mean ”Gho-Qannikz,” never mind that “Gho-Qannikz” meant nothing to the android.

In the robot’s more-than a century of existence, it had encountered thousands of words with little or no meaning, but usually they pertained to emotions, sports or politics.

STARK became increasingly interested in this discovery, which in the case of this robot, meant “allocation of more RAM for research.”

The android accessed the Ramses IV’s database for any reference to the word Gho-Qannikz. The copper-colored automaton was not surprised when it discovered there was no reference to the word in the database, but this owed more to the android’s lack of emotion than it did to any sense of anticipation.

The android re-ran its search, looking for sound-alikes, finding a single, cryptic reference to the word “Goqanish” in a sealed file from the late 20^th century. STARK could not access the file, but it was able to scan the abstract accompanying the reference.

STARK inferred from the brief glimpse at the abstract, that the author speculated the word “Goqanish” might be equated to “Gilgamesh.” A quick scan of the historical records produced millions of hits about The Epic of Gilgamesh, an ancient tale that was rife with similarities to many other pieces of old-Earth lore.

STARK pressed its claw-like metallic hands against the volcanic glass wall.

Greetings, it tried again, broadcasting on the same frequency.

Nothing.

STARK placed one foot onto the glassy “trap door.” A moment later, it stepped fully onto the door. The android reached down with its claw-hands to touch the door.

I greet you in the name of the United Nations of International Treat…

STARK never completed the transmission. The doorway beneath the android’s feet suddenly became like a viscous, oily liquid. The robot was swallowed in seconds. Moments later, the door re-solidified, leaving no trace of the metallic archaeologist.

In the year

2155…

Excerpt from:

The unauthorized biography of Melinda M. Falcone

By Sim Clayspon

©2029 PenguinTor books

In her later years, Dr. Falcone became increasingly more reclusive, spending weeks and months alone in her secret laboratory, constantly trying to improve on her contribution to the betterment of mankind through cybernetic growth.

Location: Arnulfo’s Private Moorage, Docking Bay 93

The proximity alarm announced the return of Target One.

As the MiniCruiser hove into view, gently landing in its spot on the floor, everyone gathered around, waiting to find out why Ross and SATRN had left in the first place. The hatch opened, and the ramp lowered. Within seconds, Ross stepped down from T-One, but SATRN was nowhere to be found.

“Hi guys,” Ross said.

Everyone in the bay stared at each other for a moment.

The four human members of Phoenix Flight in unison asked, “Where’s SATRN?”

Ross didn’t immediately respond, because he was simultaneously asking “Who’s the new kid?”

Then everyone spoke at once trying to answer the question they had just received. They all stopped speaking.

Marauder broke the silence first: “OK, everybody, one at a time. I’ll go first because I’m the biggest. SATRN, large metallic guy,” he said. “Can’t miss him. You took him with you…where is he?”

“Coming soon, he bought a cruiser,” Ross said. “Who’s the new guy?”

“BOUGHT A CRUISER?” Boris and Blapper both blurted in response to Ross’ comment.

“Oh…uh…I think I promised him I’d let him surprise you with it,” Ross said.

“Vell…ve are surprised,” Boris said.

“It’ s really not hard to believe,” Ross said. “I mean, he got himself declared sentient when he was applying for citizenship in 2137.”

Blapper was even more astounded by this news.

He never told me, he thought, feeling a little chagrinned.

“I never knew that,” he said. “He’s been my Right-Handroid for six years now, but I never knew he’s a citizen.”

“Oh, he’s not,” Ross said. “His application was denied…it was a landmark case…but he did the next-best thing.”

“Dare I ask what that was?” Blapper wondered aloud. “I know I really shouldn’t ask…”

“He’s a corporation,” Ross said. “You guys really didn’t know all this stuff? We’ve been together for two years and you’ve never talked to him about this?”

“A…corporation,” Marauder said. “SATRN is a…a corporation?”

“Yeah, STARcorp, established in 2138,” Ross said. “It’s mostly tech stuff, but he’s the CEO.”

“So WorldCorp wouldn’t recognize him as a citizen, but they recognized him as a corporation?” Adan Balm asked. “Oh…by the way, I’m Adan Balm…I was a security officer at the BWI Museum in Stuttgart. It appears I’ve been cleared by Mister Buttons here.”

Ross extended his right hand and gave Adan Balm a firm handshake.

“Pleased to meet you,” Ross said. “And yes, while WorldCorp’s still stingy with citizenships, they sure love them some tax-paying corporations.”

The proximity alarm blatted another warning, and suddenly the cruiser—a Dash-Galactica job, from the looks of her lines, Blapper noted—appeared over the hangar. In an instant he knew why SATRN would be so infatuated with this cruiser. The D-G Mark VII was perhaps the most innately intelligent cruiser ever built.

After a moment of confusion and trying to land the cruiser in the Docking Bay, SATRN finally admitted that the Dash-Galactica was much too large to fit, and the android agreed to “park her outside.” From the looks of her, Blapper quickly realized the ship was significantly larger than even most IPF cruisers.

When the android finally joined the group, there was a second series of awkward introductions, but SATRN quickly accepted Adan Balm based on Knopf’s seal of approval, as well as what SATRN cited as “other causes.”

“Please, come take a look at this cruiser,” SATRN said, sounding like a proud grandfather. “I am pleased with her more than I can possibly say.”

Everyone—except for Blapper, who had already stepped out and was oooooohing and aaaaaaahhhhing over the Dash-Galactica—adjourned outside to take a closer look at SATRN’s new cruiser.

“She may not look impressive, but she is even better equipped than I first imagined,” SATRN said. “And she is quite the conversationalist.”

“She?” Marauder asked, raising his right eyebrow.

“Ah, yes, the Dash-Galactica Mark Seven is one of the smartest ships ever built,” Ross said, sounding very authoritative on the subject. “What she lacks in speed—which, I assure you is very little—she makes up in smarts.”

“I can vouch for that,” Blapper said, rubbing his hand along the underbelly of the cruiser.

“Ah, Ross, William, this ship is not one of the smartest ships ever built,” SATRN said, interrupting. “This is the smartest cruiser ever built, and, according to her, she is the last of her line, except for one gutted D-G Seven hulk that Dash-Galactica keeps in their museum.”

“What I meant to say,” Marauder began, “is that you keep referring to the ship as her. You refer to it… her as though she… is alive.”

“She is as alive as I am alive,” SATRN said, sounding digitally defensive. Or was it disdainful? “She is the first ship in my new corporate fleet.”

“Have you named her?” StarWolf asked.

“Melinda M. Falcone,” SATRN said. “After, uhhh…one of the leading cyberneticists of my time.”

Adan Balm coughed, causing everyone to look at him for a moment.

“Uhmmmm, your time is extensive,” Blapper said. “The Melinda M. Falcone. It has a nice ring to it. Almost regal.”

“Aside from the Weimar Republik, she can dock with- and transport all the ships in Phoenix Flight,” SATRN said. “And I am sure that, between Blapper, Boris and myself, we can even retrofit a hatch and port for the Republik.”

“It sounds like you’ve really thought you this through,” Ross said.

“I spent more than three seconds on this process,” SATRN said. “We can stock several months’ food and other supplies in her galley. My girl was built to support a crew of forty for long missions.”

“We wouldn’t necessarily need to camp out on Titan anymore,” Marauder said, sounding like ideas were forming already.

“We’d be virtually invisible,” StarWolf said.

“Vell, allow me to be ze first to say zhat I am impressed vith your purchase, mein freund,” Boris said. “She is a very special spacecraft, indeed. And you vill make an excellent owner.”

“Partner,” SATRN corrected.

“Partner? Ach well, an excellent partner vith zhis very special ship,” Boris said.

“And she is cute, too,” SATRN said. “The purchase was merely a formality, I do not own the Falcone. She is an independent, free-thinking vessel.”

“Uhhhh…figuratively, of course,” Blapper said.

“No, I emancipated her in accordance with W-BRAP 46:236:17-18,” SATRN said. “She is free to go as she pleases, but she seems interested in sticking with me for the time being.”

“Sticking…with … you?” Marauder asked, “Like, a … pet?”

“No, like a partner,” SATRN corrected, gushingly. “To be honest, I think she has a crush on me. But, that is OK, because I know I am in love with her.”

Location: Genomic Mutagen Project

A horrendous howl filled the experimental section of the GMP facility. Deputy director of Security Mark Jones smiled inwardly. On the outside, he fought the urge to smirk.

It wasn’t that Mark Jones enjoyed hearing Dan Snodgrass suffer. He didn’t even know the man. He might be the nicest guy on the planet (unlikely) or he could be the biggest jerk this side of the Kuiper Belt (more likely.) It didn’t matter, because if Jones understood correctly, Dan Snodgrass was currently being transformed into an integral part of his plan for vengeance.

Dan Snodgrass screamed.

Mark Jones smiled.

Location: IPF Bureau of Departures and Landings; Cincinnati; Ohio; CentUSA, NorthAm

IPF Lieutenant Commander Andis Swinginna sat at his desk pushing digital pencils and paperfilm. He wasn’t really processing anything, but he was pushing the pencils and paper nonetheless.

He had been reposted in this location after his reassignment from the StarWolf Expeditionary Task Force, which disbanded immediately following the fugitive’s acquittal. Because of the massive nature of the task force, millions of IPF personnel were reassigned suddenly. One of the more shrewd up-and-comers in the accounting wing of the Interstellar Police Force quickly allocated billions of credits to expand considerable amounts of the IPF bureaucracy (including a self-promotion to the newly created title of Departmental Head of Economic Advancement and Development) as well as a subsequent creation of the Central Agency for Scientific Excursions.

The result was that millions of IPF former field employees wound up with desk jobs, as was the case with Lieutenant Commander Andis Swinginna, whose proximity to the StarWolf arrest and also the almost-arrest of William M. Trapp had equaled an early promotion for him.

Paperwork... why do promotions always mean more fripping paperwork? Andis Swinginna wondered. He had been up to his elbows in paperwork since the escape pod from the shuttle Anbarco had landed—roughly—in Denver. How come Bayleigh got another field gig? How come Crixmus got a field gig? How come I’m responsible for rubber-stamping every fripping launch request in the MidWestern Region of NorthAm?

The “Lateral Promotions” website on the IPF Internal Hiring boards made the job sound so tasty. Assistant Adjutant Director to Administrative Departmental Affairs (Customs/Immigration/Technology Enforcement) CentUSA Division sounded like an enviable and lucrative promotion.

Essentially, he had promoted himself from the top-of-his-game FieldOps position to a glorified Assistant Desk Jockey job.

Minus the glory…

And now his entire workday consisted of mind-numbing rubber-stamping bills of lading, port-of-entry filings, transport applications and import/export chits.

Paperwork! PFAH! He scoffed at his predicament.

Whenever something interested him, he initiated an inquiry. If something looked really meaty, he was allowed to personally investigate.

But nothing looked really meaty, and almost nothing even interested him.

And so it was, that on a day when little else was happening, his interest was piqued by a simple departure request for a small pseudo-fleet of four ships departing from the miserable, non-descript spaceport in Dannton, Iowa. Two clicks later, he identified that the PF Cares Foundation—chaired by Wolf Stanerton—was attempting to depart with no cargo, just exit visas for six humans and one robot.

Maybe it was the “PF” part. Maybe it was the “Stanerton, Wolf.” Or the pilots names of “Mr. Odder,” “S. Atyrn,” and “B. Lapper.”

Maybe it was just fate or wild guesses, but suddenly he was interested.

Very interested.

Lieutenant Commander Andis Swinginna found himself scrambling to grab his personal communicator. He requested Shock Troops and DACOP backups to accompany him to the Greater Dannton MetroPlex Starport.

If this was just a case of mistaken identity, he would only hold them for a few days. If it was Phoenix Flight … oooo-hooo… If it was Phoenix Flight, he would not be Assistant Adjutant Director to Administrative Departmental Affairs for much longer.

Neither an assistant nor an adjutant.

Whatever an adjutant is, he thought. He had intended to look the word up, but never got around to it yet.

If he nailed Phoenix Flight on his first mission, he would make Field Captain for sure!

Field Ops, here I come!

Chapter 19

Dash-Galactica Mark VII Cruiser Owner’s Manual

            

CENTRAL PROCESSING UNITS: The Central Processing Units of the Dash-Galactica Mark VII are located at the center of the star cruiser. The compartment is heavily shielded in order to protect the vessel from physical damage from projectiles, LASER strikes and radiation. The service maintenance hatch is password-protected and can utilize a password of as many as five million characters. This passcode can either be held in a key-fob or it can be manually entered.

Warning: If you choose to use a multi-million-character password in your key-fob, make sure to write the password down in case you lose the key-fob. (You may also wish to use less than the five-million-character limit.)

Location: Dannton; Iowa; CentUSA; NorthAM

Four spacefaring vessels sat at the ready for departure. StarWolf was lost in thought, sitting at the helm of Target One. Specifically, he was thinking about how glad he was that old habits died hard.

He felt lucky that all the years of hiding made him not register the berth in his actual name, even though he had been acquitted. Of course, using a near-anagram was probably trouble enough.

I’m surprised this starport isn’t crawling with IPF right now, he thought.

“What’s the holdup, Boss?” Blapper chimed in from Trapper’s Delight. “I haven’t waited this long to fly since my dad got the new aircar. Actually, come to think of it, I waited less for that.”

“I was just wondering that myself,” Marauder growled on the line.

“Bureaucratic red tape is nothing, if not consistent,” Ross offered, sardonically. “As soon as you know you have to wait ‘X’ amount of time, bureaucrats make it ‘X-plus-one.’”

“Amen to that, Comm,” StarWolf chirped. “Speaking of which, are you picking up anything to suggest we’re borked?”

The comm line was silent for a moment.

“Negative, Tee-One, there’s nothing but silence on the IPF bands,” Ross said. “Actually, it’s kind of really really quiet.”

“Correction, Flight,” SATRN’s mellifluous tones filled the airwaves. “We are made. Repeat: We are made. Inbound IPF Heavy. Recommend multi-trajectory evasive departure in seven, six, five, four, three, two…go!”

The four vessels leapt from their spots on the FieldStrip in unison, causing a cacophony of ‘illegal launch’ alarms to begin squawking in each ship’s cabin. Even the archaic Weimar Republik had alarms blaring.

As they launched, a newer-model IPF Cruiser, bristling with advanced weaponry, hove into view on their scanboards.

Target One and Weimar Republik chose similar outbound vectors, while Melinda M. Falcone and Trapper’s Delight each jetted off in different directions.

“Illegally launched vessels, stand down immediately and prepare for boarding procedures,” a male voice croaked over their general-band comm systems

“Uhhhmmm, negative, IPF Heavy, we’re too busy evading the inbound Mounties,” Blapper—the designated smart-aleck—replied. “We, uh… we’d like to invite you to a tea-and-biscuit social on Capra Seven, say noonish on the nineteenth?”

There was a momentary delay as the IPF ship stopped its descent and began pursuing Target One and Weimar Republik, apparently applying the logic that ‘Blasting two ships out of the sky is better than just one.’

Trapper’s Delight continued outbound upwards and toward the equator. Melinda M. Falcone headed Northeast.

“Repeat, unidentified, illegally launched vessels, stand down!” The IPF Commanding Officer shouted. “Every vessel is subject to boarding and crew-interrogation.”

“As stated previously, IPF Heavy, we are currently experiencing technical difficulties in the form of our evasion of your pursuit,” Blapper said, cheerfully. “Please stand down.”

“You…you’re telling me to stand down?” The IPF commander bellowed, sounding incredulous.

“Well, I did say ‘please,’” Blapper replied. “And it stands to reason that if you stop pursuing us, we will stop evading you.”

A noise came across the comm that sounded like an apoplectic moose sneezing. After a second, it resolved itself to the combination of several people laughing while the IPF commander shouted a string of blustering obscenities.

“’Please’ just doesn’t cut it, mister!” The IPF Commander sounded completely overwrought. “You don’t ask me to stand down, especially not after I’ve commanded you to stand down!”

“Uh…pretty please?” Blapper asked. “With various sweetened fruits on top?”

“NO! No no NO!” The IPF commander was clearly losing his cool. “You stand down! I will not stand down, you stand down! You are outmatched in speed and weaponry! Surrender…this instant!”

“Well, if you’re going to be that way about it, IPF Heavy,” Blapper began, “Then tea and biscuits is definitely off! See if we ever invite you anywhere again!”

 

“See if we ever invite you anywhere again!”

Things were definitely not going as expected. This was supposed to be a quick-and-dirty Scare-‘em and Snare-‘em run.

Instead, Lieutenant Commander Swinginna had some smart-alecky wise-cracking doof giving him a ration of turds while bolting like a coward.

Things were going so fast that he hadn’t even gotten a chance to figure out which of the four vessels was giving him all the flak. Maybe this wasn’t Phoenix Flight. For a dangerous band of pirates, they hadn’t fired a single shot at him. They were just running like cowards. Filthy, stinking cowards!

So is this the mighty Phoenix Flight? He thought. Is this the dangerous gang of ne’er-do-wells that has WorldCorp and IPF in such a tizzy? Good Google, this is ridiculous! This is like shooting fish in a barrel!

Well, ok, admittedly, extremely fast fish in a very very large barrel.

“Bogeys, this is your last chance to stand down before being shot down,” Swinginna began. “I will begin with the chemical-engine ship. I dub thee…Target One.”

“Negative, IPF Heavy, Target One is the ship currently serving as the chemical engine ship’s wingman,” the smart-aleck voice said.

“Yeah, I’ve been Target One for two years now,” a second voice said.

The Voice-Print identification device prompted him, identifying whomever claimed to be “Target One.” The name “Wolferton, Stanley R.,” popped up on his screen.

“Wolferton, you’ll get yours!” Swinginna snarl-shouted, glancing at his voice-print screen. There were several other prompts prior to the red-flagged StarWolf prompt. These were much lower priority. He opened one message.

“Voice Print Identification Match: Trapp, William McKinley (Deceased)” the computer said.

This had just gone from bad to worse: he was being taunted by a dead man.

A wicked smile crept across Swinginna’s face.

“On second thought, I’ll take you up on that offer of…was it tea and biscuits?” He cooed. “I’ve always wanted to meet you, William McKinley Trapp.”

“…always wanted to meet you, William McKinley Trapp.”

Blapper’s blood ran cold. He didn’t know why… Phoenix Flight had dealt with much more dangerous threats than a lone IPF Cruiser chasing the wrong ships through the stratosphere. Yet…somehow, his cover of “Blapper” had been blown open.

“Uh…sorry to disappoint you…uh…IPF…H…heavy, but William McKinley Trapp is dead,” he said, feeling even less confident than he knew he sounded, which was not at all. “His death was reported two years ago by a Lieutenant Strikeout or something.”

“Swinginna!” The IPF Cruiser commander bellowed. “I am Lieutenant Commander Andis Swinginna.”

“Pleased to …uh…meet you, sir,” Blapper said, his mind awhirl with confusion.

“I’m out,” Marauder said on the private comm channel. “Keep ‘em busy, Blapp.”

“Dude, your middle name is McKinley?” Ross asked. “McKinley? I’ll have to tell SATRN that’s why I only have one name.”

“Shut up,” Blapper said.

A fifth image materialized on Swinginna’s Heads-up Display and immediately accelerated toward his cruiser.

Missile? Torpedo? He thought. So they have some fight in them after all!

He highlighted the object on his screen as it traveled toward his cruiser at supersonic speed.

No metal, just a massive power signature.

Oh no…

“Evasive…!” He shouted. “Evasive...”

The lights all around him went dark as the automated point-defense lasers went absolutely bonkers as they engaged to target.

“Engage! Engage! EngageEngageEngage!” He yowled over the din of proximity alarms and other warning systems.

He silently hoped nobody heard his squeaky cry for evasive maneuvers.

“Break out the bigger guns!” He bellowed. “Take that thing down!”

SATRN focused Melinda M. Falcone’s sensors on Marauder’s buzz-run of the attacking IPF cruiser. Skirmish guns were ablaze, spitting lethal energy at the team’s leader. The guns peppered him with dozens-upon-dozens of nearly-worthless laser strikes. However, larger laser weapons began deploying, and tracking him. Within seconds, the ship unleashed countless—well, countless to a mere human. SATRN kept an exact count— volleys of high-energy laser blasts.

Those strikes, while they slowed Marauder slightly, had almost no effect.

Almost.

SATRN tightened the scan on Marauder, ignoring the cruiser Hathaway-Ddeardorff altogether. With each hit, Marauder’s already-ridiculously-high energy level elevated further and further. Marauder was becoming more powerful with each strike.

Curious.

SATRN accessed the IPF telemetry data from Marauder’s attack on Starf.

Interestingly, those data revealed that the attacker—dubbed “Man-in-Green” or “MIG”—also showed slowly-elevating energy levels with each laser strike. The only time his energy levels diminished were when he received the occasional concussive impacts from warhead detonations.

SATRN fast-forwarded and watched the deployment of the huge, moon-cracking laser that had shredded Marauder’s suit, causing him to destroy Starf in a fit of blind rage.

Marauder’s energy signature went off the chart as he was struck by the massive blue laser. The telemetry data actually showed a bright blue “halo” of raw energy crackling around his body. Marauder, it seemed, was like a massive power-collecting battery.

When all was said and done, Starf was as much slagged as it was torn asunder by Marauder’s rampage. One close-up shot actually showed a metal-and-plastic structure of a building melting away as it was rent from its original shape.

No wonder Starf came tumbling down so quickly, SATRN thought.

Suddenly, the android realized that if he could acquire this information from IPF’s databanks, anybody else in IPF or WorldCorp with minimal security clearance also could. Quickly, the android created and dispatched a worm virus through the IPF system, cleansing all references to the designee Man-in-Green+ energy+signature+laser+missile+concussion.

The individual viral worms would tidy up bits of data and other random information, making any gaps seem like failures in the original recordings. Then SATRN launched a series of sleeper-worm viruses to tidy up future telemetry data as well. The only person or thing that would ever notice Marauder’s energy-absorbing ability (or his apparent weakness to massive concussive forces) would have to be watching the telemetry in real-time.

“Oh my Google! It can’t be stopped!” Lieutenant Commander Andis Swinginna was shocked as he watched the green dot zip this way and that, avoiding so many lasers, but being hit by so many more. Disturbingly, disgustingly so, none of the hits had an apparent effect.

“We have to stop it!” Swinginna howled.

Swinginna continued to study the telemetry monitor, watching his point-defense laser system pound the Man-in-Green with enough firepower to take down an entire fleet of attack fighters.

Nothing. Nothing was happening.

Disgusted, he switched to an exterior camera scan of the attacker.

The monster was actually smiling.

He’s smiling! He’s laughing! Swinginna felt disgust continue to roil around in his gut. It’s like this is all a big joke to him!

And his energy signature…

Swinginna actually tapped his finger against the monitor to make it stop what it was doing. It didn’t stop. This was in no small part because the monitor was not a touch-screen, but also because what was happening couldn’t stop under the current conditions.

MIG’s energy signature was getting stronger with each laser strike.

In an instant, Andis Swinginna knew he was outmatched in this contest. This superpowered-punk-hippie was too powerful for a single cruiser. It was no wonder that William Trapp hid behind this monstrosity.

A few of Hathaway-Ddeardorff’s bigger gunnery emplacements fired. Swinginna watched in a mixture of awe and horror as the lasers lanced out at- and then hit the man.

Stronger yet! AAAAAARRRRGH! We’re making him even stronger!

It was no wonder the man had slagged Starf. That moronic Toby R. Nottaby had hit the man with the most powerful land-based energy weapon ever conceived! Nottaby had turned the Man-in-Green into a veritable nuclear explosion contained within a human body. Nottaby had single-handedly caused the destruction of the hapless mining colony!

“Break off the attack!” He shouted into his comm unit. His voice sounded raspy and raw, like he was choking on overcooked faux-Calamari. “It’s a trap!”

The gunnery operators immediately clicked their responses, but Lieutenant Commander Swinginna knew it was too late.

If the Man-in-Green wanted to take down Hathaway-Ddeardorff in a blaze of glory, he could do so on a whim.

The cam-scanner lost sight of the Man-in-Green.

The ship rocked and bucked.

We’re borked, Swinginna thought. So much for Field Captaincy.

Alarm klaxons filled the cabin as superpowerful gravitational forces began dragging (or in more likelihood pushing) Hathaway-Ddeardorff toward some open fields in Southern Kansas.

Forget about Captaincy, Swinginna thought. So much for even being alive.

In a fit of righteous indignation, Swinginna killed the engines, hoping it went quickly.

Let him have that on his conscience!

The IPF Cruiser bucked and strained against Marauder’s might. Its engines fought to keep the vessel aloft, its internal sensors detecting the sudden increase of gravity. Marauder strained against the vessel.

Truthfully, he had never attempted anything like this before. This cruiser had such massive drive-power, and arguably was able to travel much faster than he ever could.

And yet… he felt so…strong! Maybe he was getting some sort of laser-induced punch-drunkenness. How would he know? It was a frightening thought.

Slowly at first, the ship resisted him, and then, with his arms and chest pressed against its massive frame, he felt the vessel begin to drop.

He had to be careful with his acceleration. He didn’t want the cruiser to crash hard enough to injure any of the crew. His sole purpose here was to allow his teammates enough time to escape.

In truth, it was exhilarating to feel such an enormous, powerful piece of machinery being so completely manipulated by him from the outside. He pondered how it was possible. In his mind’s eye, he saw a person with limitless strength trying to one-hand lift a boulder twenty times his size. He would have the strength, but the amount of energy being exerted in balancing the rock would be immense.

He gleefully drank in the sounds of the cruiser’s powerful Boeing-Grumman engines screaming in protest. He had chosen this location for the put-down because he noticed open fields that appeared empty for kilometers in each direction. No collateral damage, save perhaps for a fence or a scarecrow, either of which he would happily pay to replace.

The ship’s engines continued to scream in protest as they fought against his might.

And then they were silent…

…and Marauder, Hathaway-Ddeardorff, and the Earth were on a collision course, as the man and machine began hurtling toward the ground at breakneck speed.

IPF Lieutenant-Commander Andis Swinginna felt his stomach lurch and then quickly pack its bags to relocate itself in his esophagus.

I really didn’t think it would end like this, he thought. I thought mom and dad would be so proud of me. Now I’ll just be a squished spot of mangled wreckage in some empty field somewhere in Southern Ohio or something.

His esophagus, no big fan of sharing space with his stomach, began pushing Swinginna’s internal organs back to their original positions, as if to say, no, don’t even bother unpacking up here.

Swinginna frowned the frown of a man both lost in thought and caught in a struggle between parts of his innards.

At least those buffoons in Phoenix Flight will finally become the cold-blooded killers we already make them out to be, he thought.

Having been ousted from his throat, Swinginna’s stomach made a surprising dash for his ankles.

Impact?

No. This wasn’t impact. This was worse.

The big green goliath was slowing their descent.

This time Swinginna’s stomach began unpacking its bags, scattering its contents wherever it pleased.